


The name of a sun

by FangedAngel



Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-07
Updated: 2011-07-07
Packaged: 2017-10-21 03:30:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FangedAngel/pseuds/FangedAngel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Present day fic. It's been years since the filming of Stuart: A Life Backwards, but despite everything, Tom always finds him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The name of a sun

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know. Written after watching Stuart: A Life Backwards last year. I got a craving for the Heath and incoherent randomness. Oh, and absolutely no one passing by and seeing them? The stuff of fantasy :P

The sun’s barely risen, the light of an early summer morning enveloping the world as he sees it. There are no clouds in the sky, barely any people around, barely any sound apart from his footsteps and the gentle wind. The air holds a perfume intoxicating enough to make him forget about the cigarette he’d been meaning to light, so he walks on, towards South End Green, towards the Hampstead Ponds, breathing the Heath in, its scent and its freedom.

There is no one around the mixed pond, and he dives in, leaving his towels and his T-shirt behind. The water welcomes him with its coolness and he swims around the pond a few times, until he feels his arms grow tired, muscles burning. He’s missed this, missed having time for this, missed losing himself like this, when it’s just him and water and freedom, just him and an early summer morning in the Heath.

He closes his eyes and lets himself drift for a moment, arms moving lazily, enough to keep him floating at the surface. The sun lingers on his face, a soft, warm touch, and he can’t help but smile. He doesn’t generally crave peace, not really, but when he comes here, he lets it wash over him.

“Hello, Mr Holmes.”

He would start at the unexpected sound of a voice, but he doesn’t even open his eyes. He would recognise that voice anywhere, the voice that is all gravel and cigarettes, as described in an article he’s recently read. He’s not even surprised the owner of that voice has found him here. One can only ever expect the unexpected from this man.

His smile widens, but he spends another moment not moving, not opening his eyes. Then he makes his way quickly towards the other man, slicking his wet hair back with his fingers, away from his eyes.

Tom’s grinning at him as Benedict leaves the comfort of the pond, towelling himself dry after flicking a few drops of water at Tom. He sits next to him, finding his pack of cigarettes in his bag, fumbling a bit until he finds the lighter.

Tom watches him and Benedict moves slower than usual, lighting his cigarette as if he were posing for a photograph. Tom mutters something that sounds a lot like one of the many curses he’s always heard saying, and Benedict feels satisfaction tugging at his lips as he inhales the smoke that has become as familiar as breathing.

He turns towards Tom, one hand on the side of his face, pulling him closer until their lips are almost touching. He has to let his thumb linger on Tom’s bottom lip, as fascinated as ever by its fullness, its shape. His lips have been made for this, for touching, for kissing, for...

When Tom’s lips part, Benedict blows the smoke at him, the smoke that Tom breathes in with a blissful look on his face until he realises what he’s doing. He punches Benedict in the shoulder but Benedict just laughs at him and kisses him. The taste of cigarettes on Tom is more lethal than nicotine alone will ever be.

“Naughty little wanker.”

“Mmm, I see your originality has taken a plunge, my dear.”

Tom makes a face, tangling his fingers in Benedict’s hair, his lips and tongue setting their claim to Benedict’s own once more.

Benedict hums, contentedly, noticing the change. He says nothing about it when they part, his fingers tracing Tom’s familiar features, Tom arching into his touch, smiling, calm in a way Benedict’s never seen him.

“I thought you had to be in the outback.”

“Not for another few weeks. I couldn’t leave you pining here without saying goodbye, could I?”

“Pining? We haven’t seen each other in months. You’re too busy conquering Hollywood, I’m afraid.”

More smoke is blown in Tom’s general direction, until Tom grabs the cigarette and throws it into the pond. Benedict goes for his best faux-horrified expression and Tom laughs. Benedict wants to take him away from here, back home. Olivia’s away and they’d have privacy, more privacy than here, in the middle of the Heath, weekday or not. He’s enjoying the peace, though, and he can see Tom does too, so he opts on continuing with his gentle touches, down Tom’s arm. He’s slender again, having lost some bulk for his upcoming role, not as skinny as he’d been when Benedict had first met him, but it’s part of everything that’s familiar about Tom.

“Who is he then, Tom?”

“Who is who, Ben?”

Benedict’s impatience with the diminutive would be present at any other time, but not now. And everything’s better than Benedict, at any rate.

“You’re peaceful, calm. You were always so very restless before.”

“I was doing a difficult role then, Ben. I was on edge all the time. I was desperate.”

“I was aware.”

Benedict remembers, of course he does. He remembers the almost violent sobbing fits, and how Tom wouldn’t be able to stop shaking for hours. He remembers holding him through the night, in a bed that was supposed to be only Tom’s, following the pattern of his tattoos with his fingers, with his lips, trying to soothe him, trying to shelter him from everything. They were both affected by Stuart, but it took filming to end for them to share more than kisses, for Tom to pull Benedict into bed, nudity and beauty and sexuality and the crease of laughter in his eyes. Benedict had soothed, but he hadn’t healed.

“He’s...why do you always have to know everything, eh?”

“I’m Sherlock Holmes, remember? Nothing escapes me.”

Tom fiddles with the watch on his wrist and Benedict is once more taken aback by how much Tom actually seems to belong to the prim world of East Sheen, when he sheds the layers of rebellion he’s cropped for himself. They’ve both been well-off since birth, but Benedict’s never gone down the dark streets Tom's dwelt on for most of his life. His wars have been fought against other things.

He clears his throat and Tom gives him his best boyishly endearing look before replying.

“He’s different. We’re not together or anything, obviously, but... he makes me better. He kept up with the trend you started.”

Benedict smiles at him, trying to remember the name that’s eluding him. John, was it? No, not another Watson. Joe, perhaps? Joseph?

He fishes another cigarette from the pack because he can’t keep his hands still otherwise. He keeps tapping his fingers on his thigh, aware of Tom watching him, trying to interpret him. If Benedict’s ever been better than Tom at anything, it’s at perfecting the utmost blank expression. He gives nothing away if he doesn’t want to. Tom settles on stealing this cigarette away too.

“I missed you, Ben. I wanted to find you.”

“And so you have.”

He remembers Tom’s kisses tasting of desperation, of need, of anger, of sadness, of insanity. He remembers how he had no patience then, how everything was rough and fast, how he stole drags of Benedict’s cigarettes afterwards, how he’d feel guilty about it because he’d already quit smoking. He’s learned patience since the last time, and Benedict envies the one who’s taught him this, the one who’s given him what he couldn’t. There was never any talk of romance or staying ‘together’ between them, a detail Benedict’s only ever regretted once. He’s always known he can’t give Tom the stability he needs, after all.

He lets himself be kissed, lets himself lie on the ground with Tom over him, like students frolicking in the grass. There’s still no one to see them, no one to see them pressed together, almost trying to crawl into each other’s skin, Benedict pulling Tom closer, Tom kissing Benedict harder.

“I kept dreaming about you, you know. Your eyes, your lips, your fucking fingers, how long they felt inside me, how you filled me, how I needed you and you gave me everything, how your cheeks would flush and your eyes would seem even brighter than usual. Cold, cold as ice, but not then, not now, not with me, am I right, thrill-seeker?”

Benedict tugs at Tom’s lip with his teeth by way of reply, his breathing laboured. This shouldn’t be happening here, but the Heath is siding with them and this part remains deserted still.

“Was I your biggest thrill, Ben?”

Benedict thinks that moving against Tom now is a good enough answer so he says nothing, he just breathes and kisses and touches and holds on, fingers digging into Tom’s shoulders, imagining the contours of the tattoos hidden by the shirt Tom’s wearing.

“You should be taking me home right about now.”

Tom laughs, warmly, lips pressed to Benedict’s neck.

“You know how I love a quickie in plain sight, love.”

His name is Joseph. He looks younger than his years, made of smiles and good cheer and talent. Tom’s Joseph. A perfect fit. He can see them together in his mind’s eye, beautiful, matching, clinging to each other.

Benedict tangles his fingers in Tom’s hair, which is longer than he remembers, pulling at the strands, his legs framing Tom’s, holding him there, his kisses desperate, needy. The tables have turned but, for now, he banishes Joseph’s name to the darkest corners of his mind, giving in to oblivion.


End file.
